A Broken Water Pipe
Judy hesitated only a minute. Somehow, she felt she and Horace ought to
have Dick’s permission before they did anything as drastic as breaking
down the door to his prison.
“Is it all right?” she called, but there was no answer.
They waited a moment more. The beam was ready, but was the prisoner
ready to meet their onslaught? When there was no sound other than the
rushing of water overhead and the constant _drip_, _drip_ from the
leaky pipes, they shouted a second warning.
“Keep away from the door!”
With this they rushed ahead, but on the first try they succeeded only
in cracking a lower door panel. A moan from inside told them the
prisoner had been disturbed by the commotion. But still he said nothing
in answer to their calls.
A second assault brought forth more moans. Judy became worried. “Let’s
not try that again, Horace,” she pleaded. “If he’s fallen against the
door we could really hurt him. There must be a better way.”
“If there is,” her brother said, “I’m sure I can’t think of it. We
won’t hurt him if he keeps back—”
“But can he? I’m afraid he may have fainted. The floor is all wet from
those dripping pipes. If he’s fallen face down in the water—”
“We have to get him out,” Horace finished. “We agree on that.”
“But not by hurting him.” Judy’s suspicions of the prisoner were
forgotten. She was all sympathy now. She called gently, “We’re sorry,
Dick! We didn’t mean to frighten you. We were just trying to get in and
help—”
“Help!”
The cry sounded so faint and far away that it puzzled Judy.
“Was that only an echo?” she asked.
Horace did not answer. He was examining the crack in the lower panel.
Presently he stood up, flashlight in hand.
“You may be right, sis,” he said. “There may be a better way. Watch
this.”
Horace placed the flat of his hand against the cracked door panel and
pushed with all his might. Judy heard a crack as a piece of the panel
gave way and left a narrow opening through which her brother beamed his
flashlight.
“Horrors!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think it was that bad. I hope we’re
not too late.”
“Is he Dick Hartwell?”
“Take a look for yourself,” he suggested, moving away from the opening.
“He’s in pretty bad shape, whoever he is. Dick’s young, but this man
looks old. Or is he? It’s hard to tell under all that brush.”
Judy couldn’t be sure of the man’s identity either. She peered through
the opening in the door panel while Horace held the flashlight. There
was no window in the cell-like room. There was no light at all, not
even a candle. A small table, one chair and a cot in the corner were
its only furnishings. Across the uncovered springs of the cot the man
was sprawled, his bearded face turned toward the wall. His clothing was
in tatters. He lay there motionless.
“Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he is dying,” Judy whispered.
“Get hold of the beam and we’ll smash the other door panel,” Horace
said urgently. “We can’t hurt him if he stays over there in the corner,
and maybe we can still help him. Ready?”
“I’m ready, Horace!”
[Illustration: He lay there motionless]
“Let her go!”
This time they rammed the beam against the door with such force that
both panels shattered and the beam went up like one end of a seesaw. It
banged one of the pipes, and water began to pour out of it in a steady
stream. Horace stared at it, his face turning pale.
“Now what have we done?” gasped Judy. “We tried to help, but just look
what we’ve done! The tunnel will surely be flooded now!”
“The drain—will take care of it.” Horace spoke jerkily and without
conviction. Judy could tell that he feared the worst.
The water from the broken pipe did seem to be running toward the drain.
It was icy cold. Judy wet her handkerchief in it and hurried over to
the cot where the prisoner lay. She placed the handkerchief on his
forehead, wiping away the beads of cold perspiration that stood there.
“He is Dick Hartwell,” she told Horace.
Her brother was about to follow her through the opening they had broken
in the door, but she called to him, “Warm your coat to wrap around him.
Take it over to the furnace and get it good and warm. He’s in shock, I
think. Poor Dick! What have they done to you?”
She took his hand and found it cold. He seemed to have collapsed,
perhaps from fear when the water pipe burst. The thing to do was to
revive him quickly. Judy began to rub his hands, trying to start the
circulation. His breath came in shallow gasps. She could scarcely feel
his pulse.
“Hurry, Horace!” she called.
But Horace was already there with the warm coat. Judy threw her own
coat on top of it.
“Dick! Dick!” she called. “Wake up! You have to wake up and help us.
The water is pouring in here. We have to get you out!”
The man let out a long, gasping breath and opened his eyes. Judy’s face
must have looked like the face of an angel as the beam from Horace’s
flashlight fell upon it. “Where am I?” Dick asked. “Is this heaven?”
“It is not!” Horace had to laugh in spite of their predicament. “My
sister says it’s too far down. Is there a way out—besides that hole
under the cupids, I mean? How did you get in?”
“They ... pushed me.”
“Into the fountain, you mean? We heard you moaning and thought it must
be haunted. How long have you been here?” asked Judy.
“Days.” Evidently Dick didn’t remember how many, but Judy could imagine
how long it must have seemed. He had been without food or any other
comfort. This much he told them in a hoarse, whispery voice. It was
hard to make out what he said.
“Who locked you in?” questioned Horace.
“Roger. You know him. He’s ... no friend ... made me ... lose job. Told
them ... my record. That ... fixed me ... gave me ... no peace ...
anywhere. Now ... too late!”
Talking seemed to be too much of an effort, and he broke off here,
looking beseechingly at Judy.
“It’s all right, Dick. We understand. You don’t have to tell us any
more.”
“But I want to,” he protested in a louder tone. “They made me ... sign
papers. When I ... refused ... they beat me up.... Bad shape. Can’t
walk.”
“We’ll get you out of here somehow,” Horace promised. “Who did it?
Roger and Cubby?”
Dick nodded. After taking another deep breath, he added, “and Falco.
He’s ... boss. He made me ... copy signatures ... important men.”
“Can you remember any of the names you copied?”
Dick did remember a few of them. He whispered them in such a low tone
that Horace had to lean close to him in order to hear. Judy heard only
the water.
“It’s rising!” she exclaimed. “The drain isn’t carrying it away as fast
as it comes in. I didn’t think it would. I—”
She stopped. Horace wasn’t listening. He was busy taking notes, getting
Dick’s story down in black and white. He had his flashlight propped up
on the table. But Judy, flashing hers in the direction of the broken
water pipe, saw the flood he seemed to be ignoring.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried. “Didn’t you hear me? How can
you sit there with your little black notebook when water is pouring in
all around us? No story is that important!”
“This one is,” replied Horace. He calmly removed a piece of chocolate
from his pocket, unwrapped it, and handed it to the man on the cot.
“Eat it slowly,” he urged. “It will give you strength. You say they
brought food, but wouldn’t give it to you. Then what happened?”
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